Sanguisorba Part I
by Lenora1854
Summary: You will meet a tall, red shinigami. Grelle Sutcliff meets a stranger at a pub. But neither are truly who they claim to be. R&R.
1. Unsuitable Sadness

INSTALLMENT 1

"Come now," words flowed like honey from somewhere behind the shinigami. "You shouldn't get so upset."

Grell turned around to face a young man—or so it seemed. The individual who had spoken was young, lithe, with pale skin and dark brown eyes. His hair was pulled taut into a hat, which suggested it was longer than it appeared. The voice itself was a perfect upper-class accent, feminine in its tenderness, masculine in its honest-but-teasing tone, and imperceptibly sensual. He was dressed in rich clothing that pulled on the hips and chest, but hung straight along the waist. What a curious physique.

He came close—closer than polite society should allow. "Such sadness is unsuitable for a lady of your beauty." His hand reached up, nearly to the shinigami's face, and it was all Grell could do to suppress a sharp-toothed smile.

TBC


	2. Lady Vivien Phantomhive

INSTALLMENT 2

Lady Vivien Phantomhive was Ciel Phantomhive's cousin, on the paternal side. Ciel's uncle had successfully married, and his wife, a sickly, pale creature, had a daughter—and died in the effort. Clutched in his own grief, Vivien's father took to travelling through Europe, drowning his past in rare spirits and beautiful Mediterranean women. When he would return to their mansion to see his daughter and ensure that the servants were caring for her appropriately, he would always be reminded of his late wife, and how little their child resembled her.

Lady Vivien grew up steadfast, stubborn, and independent. By the age of ten, it was she who ran the house, not her tutors. She grew up fairly isolated, but as soon as she was allowed into London, she fell in love with the city. It's pedestrian life, it's freedom, called to her and, when she was sixteen years old, she was already escaping the sterile world of aristocracy and immerging herself in reality.

As most young ladies of good breeding, Lady Vivien had her own maid. Over time, the old woman who tended to her grew old and retired. Her father sent her a new maid for her fourteenth birthday, her only reminder he still existed. The young woman he sent was only nineteen and a lovely, freckled girl of fine figure and sweet temper. Her name was Margaret, and Vivien loved her. In fact, her affection for her maid was marked by the servants as an unsightly obsession. But it was more than an obsession. She had truly fallen in love, with more force than she had felt with any young boy who had courted her previously. Her father had not bothered to have her betrothed, and her disinterest in male suitors was never well-hidden. Within a year, she revealed her true feelings to Margaret, but the young maid viewed their relationship merely as a friendship. She was disgusted, and she left the mansion within a fortnight.

The lady was broken-hearted for years, until she faced reality: Her situation was a strange one, unknown of. She had heard of Uranian men, but never of women. So, she decided her happiness could only be achieved as a man. She took to wearing men's clothing, and was initially surprised at how pleasant and free she was in pants, despite the bandages which restricted her bosom. The first times common people referred to her as "sir," Vivien reacted with indignation, but overtime she became accustomed to it, even though she didn't like it. While she lived her days at the estate as a woman, only as a man in London could she be treated with respect by gentlemen, as an equal, and with true interest by ladies. She was aware that she could never have this as a woman; she could never be loved and esteemed as a woman; she could never be accepted as herself. She spent most of her days at the London house with her personal butler, and only the servants and her closest family knew of her duality.

TBC


	3. Whiskey Tears

INSTALLMENT 3

Vivien exited the carriage, waving it away as she did every night. She stepped through the threshold of the pub she frequented and was surprised by a new form. Alone at the bar was a lady. But this was no regular lady. She was fantastically tall, with flowing red hair, and wore an intricate red dress. The lady sighed, sipped at a—whisky? A lady drinking whisky?

While the dress was revealing for the Victorian age, baring arms, shoulders, and back, the front of it was closed and the fabric hid her true form, hinting only at thinness. The lady sighed once more, and a drop of water fell from beneath her glasses into her whisky. She looked down into the glass and hung her head, misery and her hair enveloping her figure.

Vivien approached her, sat down next to her, leaned in, and spoke. "Come now, you shouldn't get so upset."

The lady spun around and smiled, briefly. Her eyes, so full of life and mercurial emotion, were brilliant. And her lips, red, soft, open with permanent yearning stoked the lady in disguise, spoke to her own cravings.

"Might you tell me what distresses you so?"

TBC


	4. Introductions

INSTALLMENT 4

Was this so? Had a gentleman really approached her, found her beautiful? Or was this simply pity?

It didn't matter either way, this was Grell's chance, and she planned to enjoy the flattery.

"You don't truly want to know, do you? Oh, even if you did, I couldn't tell you. I couldn't explain it, really."

"Try me," a sly grin closed the deal, and Grell spilled.

"Every time I try to get close to someone, they push me away. Like I'm not good enough. Like I disgust them. Maybe I do…" Fresh tears welled in her eyes, and one broke free, falling down her cheek. The gentleman stopped it, caressing Grell's face with the tips of his too-soft fingers. He said forcibly, "Nonesense."

"Those men are fools. They're not worth your tears." Anger leaked into his voice. Such protectiveness, such hardness of character, coupled with those caressing fingers drove pangs into Grell's heart. His skin flushed.

"My name is Grell Sutcliff."

"What an original name," he mused. "Rare, yet tasteful." His fingers turned in, and he stroked Grell's check with the back of his hand, dropping it slowly.

"And what is yours?"

"Me? Vivien Phantomhive." Grell gulped. A Phantomhive? An image of Sebastian Michaelis stabbed into her brain and she grew suddenly dizzy. Her hands reached forward for the counter but her body tottered on the edge of the seat. The young Phantomhive gripped her arms with strength and stability. He would not let her fall. In fact, a cold current against her temple revived Grell. The boy in front of her, not more than twenty years old, was blowing cool air delicately in the place of smelling salts. The dizziness subsided, but Grell did not sit upright. She preferred to remain as she was for a few seconds, cared for by this young, beautiful person.

TBC


	5. A Breeze for the Lady

INSTALLMENT 5

At the sound of his name, the lady in red grew pale and swooned, nearly falling from the chair. Vivien steadied her by gripping her arms. Lord, she was heavy. She was extraordinarily thin, but, as she tottered near him, he realised she had rather broad shoulders. That, coupled with her height, explained the unexpected weight. She also had considerable muscle for a lady.

Panicking slightly, he went through his mind on what to do. Smelling salts were unavailable, and pulling out a fan in a public place would have him ridiculed to kingdom come. What the lady needed was cool air, like that supplied by a fan. So, he blew gently upon her forehead, careful to avoid her half-lidded eyes and her sensual mouth. Between puffs, he asked the barman, who was eyeing them with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and antipathy, for a glass of water.

Soon, the colour returned to the lady's cheeks, which was a good thing, because Vivien's arms could not hold her much longer. A smile played on her lips as she seemed to enjoy the breeze.

Grell. The name played on his mind's lips. He had never met anyone like her. He had flirted shamelessly with women for years, but always with a wary distance and lack of true humanity, which made a relationship impossible. And it was better that way. If any form of intimacy had ever developed, they would have discovered his true identity, and he would have lost his honour as well as his heart. And pride was a Phantomhive tradition.

Once the lady could support herself, Vivien raised the glass to her lips and tilted it slightly. She opened her eyes, and her tongue traced the edge of the glass as she drank. Vivien's body throbbed involuntarily. How could this lady be so feminine, so refined, and simultaneously so roguish, riggish? He put the glass back down on the table, and Grell cocked her head.

"Are you quite well now?"

TBC


	6. Madame Impulse

INSTALLMENT 6

"Are you quite well now?"

"Indeed," she was floating on cloud nine. The intimacy of warm hands and sweet caresses, the cool contrast of his breath and the liquid at her lips. It was all too much. Grell was developing a crush. She looked the boy up and down. No, she did not find him attractive. He was too small, too lacking in the imposing figure of… of that demon who had cast her aside from the moment they met. It was not a crush in the fashion of instantaneous attraction, as she had felt with many over time. But the worry in his voice, the true concept of someone _caring _for her left Grell speechless. She desired his company, his proximity, his flattery. This was an attraction that spoke to her femininity.

"Has a member of my family wronged you?" his words held that protective pride once more. So beautiful.

"No, not of your _family_ per say," she decided to change the subject. This was not something she wanted to recall. "But I do know your… may I venture to say your cousin? Ciel Phantomhive?""

"Ciel. Unfortunate boy. How did you meet him?"

"I was the but—I knew his aunt, Madame Red." A pang of guilt and regret coursed through her body as she remembered how that woman had abandoned her—left her like every other person in her life. She had chosen her nephew over her lover. Her little brat of a nephew over the woman she supposedly loved. Clearly, she did not.

"Ah, yes, a most unpleasant business. May I offer my condolences, then?"

"You may. Thank you." Grell took another sip of the water. Yes, she would take his condolences, but not for Madame Red. She would accept them as condolences for her heart, now bruised in one too many places.

They sat together for a while more, exchanging pleasantries. Vivien suppressed his desire to compliment the lady, to run his hands through her long, red hair, and fall in love with all her eccentricities. Grell suppressed her wish to throw herself upon this young man's breast and be held in the contact she seldom experienced and often yearned. To feel his life, his energy, his oh-so human heart.

TBC


	7. The Ghost Hour

INSTALLMENT 7

The Big Ben stroked two in the morning. They had been there all night.

"Oh, no," Grell pulled out a black book and flipped through its pages. "I'm afraid I have an appointment in just a few hours." She looked up. "I have to go."

"An appointment at five?"

"Yes, forgive me," she said with a lady-like nod of her head. One hand flew to his and touched it with scalding warmth. She flitted from her seat at the bar, brushing against his knees as she tumbled slightly to the floor. She was leaving him. He had spent the night with her—unheard of for any lady in Victorian society—and the sight of her escaping him now pushed logic out of Vivien's mind.

"Grell!" She turned to face him. In a moment of madness, he was holding out a card; he was breaking all his rules. Every last one. "If you like, we could do this again." Her eyes lit in fluorescent green. She snatched the card, looked down at it, fleetingly, and disappeared into the darkness with four long strides.

Vivien sunk into the seat. It was late, but the loss of sleep had not yet affected him. He was torn between enchantment, between bliss, and the realization that he had just given this bright-eyed beauty his card. And soon they would meet again, under the expectation that he would remain as he was now, enshrouded in darkness. Dread crept into his throat, but still the fantasy was fresh.

Vivien looked along the bar to find Grell's whisky. He lifted the glass and studied the traces of lipstick marking the rim. His finger outlined them, carefully, and he put his lips to the edge, claiming a ghost kiss from her absent lips and finishing the drink. The liquor, along with the trace of moist rouge exacted a sigh from his chest.

He returned home walking along the cobblestone path of London, with a rare, electric energy. When he returned home, even Clifton's admonishment (for staying out so late in such a dangerous part of town) were deflected like feathers against an armour of elation.

TBC.

This is the end of the first part. The second part involves Ciel, Sebastian, and banter. It will be uploaded under the name of Sanguisorba Part II. If you enjoyed this, go check it out! Thank you! R&R.


End file.
